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A mind littered with happy music, a heart broke
into quieted halves—what you take from the platter
is on the house. A shingled sequel, rain-swept sleeves.
Long forearms will lift you up to a place
the paint left clean of prints. Fingers spread
the slogans, over fences, under the dampened loft.
What happens here is memory—yours, to be exact.
A need to read the landmarks, a safe
cracked by fastidious hands. You will not qualify
everything, and you shouldn’t, even the night
it storms. Rooms crowd beneath the station as trains
stall for towns at a time. This is your country.
There are no shortcuts. The pages turn and you forget.
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Both regulators and employers have embraced new technologies for on-the-job monitoring, turning a blind eye to unjust working conditions.
But I do miss the hymns, / the small, hard apples with their dimpled skin. I do miss / things.
The vast hinterlands of the Global South’s cities are generating new solidarities and ideas of what counts as a life worth living.